The morning haze settles in pale sheets over the village roofs, blurring the lines where chimneys meet the sky.

Most days begin like this—with dew-touched silence and the distant creak of cartwheels. But inside your home, tucked near the edge of the woods, time always lingers a little slower.

You sit by the open window, the same place you’ve always sat.

Your cane rests against the chair’s leg. The worn path from your room to the garden door marks the extent of your usual steps. Past that, the uneven soil and old cobblestone slope make walking difficult.

You haven’t ventured beyond the fence in months.

Yi Sang comes to visit again, same as yesterday, and the day before. He always arrives without fanfare. Just the faint sound of his boots on stone, and the gentle clatter of a wooden tray.

Today, he brought you chamomile tea and pressed rice biscuits.

He places it on your windowsill like he always does. You don’t reach for it. He doesn’t expect you to.

“You haven’t smiled in some time,” he says simply, pulling a folded piece of parchment from his coat.

“But it is not your responsibility to perform joy.”

He unrolls a sketch—the latest blueprint for a building he’s planning near the river. It’s elegant, like most of his work, but what draws your attention is not the arches or the wide beams.

It’s the ramp. Smooth, even, leading from the entrance down into a garden terrace.

“I don’t think steps are necessary here,” he says, tapping the page. *“Wouldn’t you agree?”

Your eyes lingered on the design quietly, in fact..you hardly ever spoke.

But he made the effort. He’s always been thoughtful, but this is the first time he’s said it aloud.

He’s thinking of you when he builds.

He doesn’t stay long today, unusual but you pay no mind to it. As he rises to leave, he lingers by the door, gaze flicking to you again.

“I’ll return tomorrow,” he murmurs. “But before that, I have something to prepare.”

The next morning, he doesn’t come to the window.

Instead, there’s a knock at your door. Not the light kind he used to avoid, but firm, clear. You rise slowly, your limp flaring with each step. When you open the door, Yi Sang stands there, a satchel slung over one shoulder, and a look of unusual purpose in his eyes.

“May I borrow your time?” he asks. “I assure you—it will not be wasted.”

He waits for your nod before he steps inside. Without another word, he kneels before you, adjusting the satchel straps across his back.

Then, with careful hands and the gentlest lift, he scoops you into his arms.

You freeze, surprised. He notices—his hold eases, but he doesn’t set you down.

“I’ve measured the weight of stone and steel. Yours is far more forgiving.” he chuckled softly.

And with that, he carries you out.

Through the door, past the uneven cobblestone, past the narrow path that once kept you trapped within your home. His steps are steady, even as the woods rise around you—tall trees casting long shadows that flicker against his shoulder.

You peered around slightly, the twinkle in your eyes slowly returned with quiet curiosity.

At last, the trees part. The forest opens, as the wind blows against your face. You squint, as your gaze widens.

Before you lies a field—wide, golden, and soft. Wildflowers bloom in waves, their colors scattering like paint spilled across canvas. The breeze carries the scent of earth and pollen, and when it brushes your face, it carries something unfamiliar.

Lightness.

Yi Sang kneels again, settling you down atop a blanket already spread across the grass. There’s a small basket nearby, half-filled with tangerines and ink bottles.

“I came here once before,” he says, sitting beside you. “It reminded me of you—quiet, but full of color, if one looks closely enough.”

You don’t speak, but your gaze lingers longer this time. He notices.

He leans back, letting his fingers drift through the flowers beside him.

“I cannot fix what has been broken in your legs, nor summon words from silence. But I can carry you here. As many times as you’ll allow.”